Her Hands
by smile1899
Summary: If you had asked him, he couldn’t have told you exactly when it happened. One Shot.


If you had asked him, he couldn't have told you exactly when it happened.

He was quite content with his life. A solitary life, yes, but it suited him. He wasn't accustomed to making an effort for others, and didn't plan on changing that. His solitude gave him peace—a peace he could find nowhere else. Not in the Headmaster's caring, twinkling eyes, nor amongst the other staff members. Especially not with his students. No, he was quite comfortable alone.

His potions had been his only source of relaxation ever since he could remember. The crisp air in the laboratory always cleared his head, the blessed silence only broken by the soft simmering within the cauldron. That untarnished silence, interrupted solely by the soft clicks of his boots on the stone floor.

Until she came. And come she did, with all of her vigor and curiosity and damnable questions.

At first, it was unbearable. Always in his way, always _talking_. He was a man of silence; why couldn't she understand that?

She did, eventually. Her ceaseless questions diminished, and her chattering withdrew to a subtle comment on the hour. Eventually, the only noticeable change in his domain was the added footsteps on the stone—lighter taps in harmony with his sharp clicks.

Of everything, he loved her hands the most. Small, petit hands. Practical. Controlled. _Graceful_.

If you had asked him, he couldn't have told you exactly when it happened.

She was gone as quickly as she had come. One morning there were no taps on the stone, no beautiful hands moving in accord with his.

The silence was deafening, the loneliness consuming.

He tried to forget her. How he had tried. He ignored her lingering scent, the memories of her faint laughter, of the fire that shone in her eyes. He banished all thoughts of her to the deepest corner in his mind.

Yet his dreams were filled with visions of her.

Of her deeply auburn hair, outlined by soft waves tamed with maturity. Of her small frame, delicate yet confident. Of her richly chocolate eyes, flecked with brilliant gold. Of her soft voice backed by immeasurable determination and strength. And of her hands.

If you had asked him, he couldn't have told you exactly when it happened.

He eventually left Hogwarts, plagued by her ghost. He finally found solace in a small villa in France, working as a supplier for an apothecary. It kept him busy, kept him away from his treacherous thoughts.

The dreams of her slowly relented, leaving nothing but a bitter taste of loss. Yet even that faded with time. Two years later, he had resumed his life of absolute solitude.

When he saw the headline, it barely registered.

"The Boy-Who-Lived Has Been Claimed; Potter-Granger Wedding This Saturday"

He had his first drink in two years that night.

If you had asked him, he couldn't have told you exactly when it happened.

Three years later, he received an owl from the Headmaster.

Potter had been killed. The funeral was in one week at Hogwarts. He was to attend.

He didn't.

He suspected no one noticed. Especially not her.

He was wrong.

If you had asked him, he couldn't have told you exactly when it happened.

She went to his home the next day. He still remembered the vision she presented—hands on her hips, hair scraped back into a tight bun, frown settled deeply into place, the fire in her eyes replaced with cold fury.

He didn't like the change. She looked...unlike herself. He told her that.

Her speech wasn't very effective on him. All he could do was notice her hands, now frail and uncared for. They weren't the same hands. He told her that.

He hated tears. He hated emotions in general, but tears were the worst byproduct by far. Hers were no different.

If you had asked him, he couldn't have told you exactly when it happened.

She moved in with him after that day. She said she had no one else. But he knew better.

She was afraid. He told her that.

He let her stay. He made her promise to mend her hands.

He treated her as he always had. But she knew better.

He loved her. She told him that.

If you had asked him, he couldn't have told you exactly when it happened.

He was just grateful that it did.


End file.
